


The King's Lament

by vintagelilacs



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - Season 04, Canon Era, Fake Character Death, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Magic Revealed, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintagelilacs/pseuds/vintagelilacs
Summary: Once again Arthur couldn’t help drawing comparisons between Merlin and the stable boy. They were both insolent and irreverent, had a penchant for getting under Arthur's skin, and neglected the use of his proper titles. Most of all, Arthur desperately wanted it to be him.





	The King's Lament

Arthur’s bleary gaze settled on the smudged outline by the foot of his bed. Dark hair, red scarf, dull blue tunic.

“Merlin?” His throat felt desiccated, his head foggy, as if he’d spent the night in an ale-induced haze. He knew that wasn't the case, because his limbs were too listless and numb to even lift a goblet to his lips.

A throat cleared noisily. “Apologies, sire. I will be attending you.” 

He blinked several times in quick succession to clear his vision. The figure slowly came into focus. Where there should have been fine lineaments and pronounced cheekbones, pouty lips and protruding ears, there was only a rounded, unremarkable face. Arthur felt as if he’d been doused with a bucket of ice water. It was George; not Merlin. It would never be Merlin again. 

“I’ve brought you breakfast," George reported, with the somberness of a knight reporting the casualties after a battle. "Porridge with honey and nutmeg, fresh cranberry bread, and a dish made from woodcock.” 

A phantom image of Merlin appeared in his mind, smirking at George’s mention of ‘woodcock.’ If Merlin had been here, they would have snickered together like a pair of juveniles. 

“Leave me,” Arthur ordered, his voice sounding strangely distant to his ears. 

“Sire?” 

“I do not wish to be disturbed today.” 

George bowed his head deferentially, and left the breakfast platter within reach. The meal looked and smelled delectable, when it should have been a meagre assemblage of eggs and half-eaten sausages. Arthur made no move to try any of the carefully prepared food. Although his stomach felt hollow, he found he had no appetite.  
  
  
Despite his request not to be disturbed, his door was opened and his presence was solicited twice more that day. 

The first visitor was Guinevere. Her eyes were puffy and swollen but she essayed a small smile. “Hello, Arthur. I thought I’d see how you’re faring.” 

He lacked both the energy and the will to answer. 

“I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For you, I mean. We’re all grieving, but I can’t imagine what it’s like for you. I know he meant a lot to you, and to have seen him right before…” 

“That will be all, Guinevere,” he murmured. 

She inclined her head, though it was noticeably stiffer than George’s bow had been. “If you ever need anyone to talk to, just know that I’m here.” 

“Thank you,” he answered. He was too numb to express proper gratitude, but inwardly he was thankful for her presence. Guinevere was sweet and lovely and endlessly kind, and it was not difficult to remember why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place. The ember of longing he’d once had for her had extinguished long ago, dampened by the knowledge he would always be her second choice after Lancelot. Still, it was good to have someone to call a friend. He was experiencing a sudden dearth of them, of late.  
  
  
His second visitor was his uncle. Agravaine knocked on the doors to his chambers with a firm hand and Arthur bade him to enter, because he knew if he did not, his uncle would likely loiter awkwardly outside his room all evening. 

“Sire, I would like to offer my condolences.” Agravaine’s face creased with avuncular concern. “Of course, a servant like Mervin could not hope to die a more honourable death, but I know his passing is difficult for you.” 

_Mervin._ Had it been a slip of the tongue, or did his uncle not even know Merlin’s name? 

“Additionally, I must inform you there’s a council meeting scheduled for tonight with a representative from Mercia. It may have understandably slipped your mind, given the circumstances, but I’m afraid it is of paramount importance.”

Arthur’s limbs were too heavy to lift from the bed, grief a palpable weight pinning his muscles. What a strange ailment grief was, a sickness with no apparent cure or remedy. “You may speak in my place. They will defer to your judgement.” 

Agravaine bowed. “It would be my honour.”

* * *

As the days trickled by, a tentative pattern was established. Agravaine took over Arthur’s duties, exerting his judgement and sitting in on council meetings as a locum for him. Just as Arthur had become regent king when Uther had been incapacitated with grief over Morgana, Agravaine was as good as regent king for Arthur. 

Only minimal service was requested from George. Arthur tolerated the meals he brought and occasionally placed a request for bathwater, but he ordered George to forgo proper room-cleaning. Arthur was largely left alone, but the black despondency he had sunken into only seemed to worsen. 

His bathwater was always the perfect temperature. Never cool, never boiling.

His breakfast platter was a sumptuous array of delicacies. All his sausages were accounted for, and none of the food was ever nicked from his plate. 

His armour so smooth he could see his reflection in it. He suspected he would never have to complain about rust spots again. 

It was the level of service every king expected, or at least desired. Now that he had it, it sickened him. 

Merlin had never been this competent. He had been lazy and clumsy and irreverent, but Arthur vastly preferred his brand of insolence. He missed Merlin’s goofy grin, his quick-witted repartee, and the ungainly but persistent motions of his hands as he cleaned and polished. He would give _anything_ for that back. 

If a sorcerer existed who could promise him as much, Arthur would be sorely tempted to bargain, even knowing magic’s fickle and evil nature. Some moments he contemplated actually seeking out a sorcerer himself, maybe even Dragoon, but then he’d hear an echo of Merlin’s voice in his head. _There can be no place for magic in Camelot._ Merlin would never have resorted to the use of magic. He’d always recognized it as evil, even when Arthur himself had been manipulated and beguiled by the cruel tricks employed by the likes of Morgause or Dragoon. And in the end, it had been magic that had cost Merlin his life. 

Everytime Arthur closed his eyes, he saw Merlin’s face on the backs of his eyelids. There had been no fear there in his final moments. Only fierce determination. 

Arthur remembered dropping to his knees and sifting through empty air. There had been no body. There had been no bone fragments or ashes, or any remains he could cling to. 

He now resented all the times he’d mocked Merlin for his cowardice. It had always been jokingly and he’d never actually meant it. Merlin, in spite of his convenient absence during fights, was one of the bravest men Arthur knew, and his final act had been to save Arthur—to jump in front of him and save him from the fusillade of dark magic that would have struck him down. 

“I did it.” Morgana’s expression had been one of shaky relief; no trace of horror or intimation of remorse at killing one of her former friends. “I did it,” she’d repeated, this time with triumph. “I killed Emrys!” 

Arthur remembered lunging at her with his sword, the scream that wrenched from his throat resembling the wail of a wounded animal, rather than a warcry. 

Morgana hadn’t lingered to battle him. She’d only grinned, before dissolving into smoke. “I’ll be seeing you, dear brother.” 

Morgana had stolen something from him that day. She’d killed Merlin, but she’d also torn a part of Arthur’s heart from his chest. He was all wrong and twisted up inside, as if some vital organ was missing. 

Hollow and listless though he may be, he finally forced himself out of bed. He had no idea how many days it had been since he’d left his room. He knew he smelled rank and was in desperate need of a wash, but instead of sending for water to be brought up, he went down to the practice pitch. It was mostly deserted. A few knights in training were practicing defensive maneuvers, but of his knights of the round table, only Leon was present. Arthur wasn’t surprised to learn of their absence. He knew from Guinevere that Gwaine had been spending his nights—and days, for that matter—in the tavern, working himself into a drunken stupor. Apparently he only made it back to the castle most nights when Percival carried him. 

At least Arthur was coping moderately better. He hadn’t turned to drink yet, but that was mainly because he suspected once he started trying to find succor in mead and ale, he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

“Arthur,” Leon greeted wearily, lowering his sword from where he’d been hacking at a straw-stuffed training dummy. “It’s good to see you up and about.” 

He smiled humorlessly. “Yes, well, can’t allow myself to go soft.” He lowered his eyes. “Not if I’m going to kill Morgana.” 

Leon swallowed audibly. In Arthur’s youth he’d harboured a small crush on Leon, but he’d suspected for a while that Leon had sustained romantic feelings for Morgana. Those feelings had likely withered after all the crimes she’d committed, but he couldn’t imagine Leon would ever be glad to see Morgana dead. 

Arthur himself had never been able to bring himself to truly hate her, either. He simply couldn’t reconcile the hate-filled gaze that had once reflected only love. He didn’t understand what had molded her into the type of person who could murder her past friends without compunction. Magic was a truly wretched force if it could sully even the purest of hearts. 

“Would you like to spar?” Leon offered quietly. 

Arthur agreed. He lowered his legs into a fighting stance and readied his sword. He was disarmed in under five minutes. It was the first time Leon had beaten him in years.

* * *

Arthur contemplated asking Gaius whether he was capable of concocting any potions that could alleviate heartache, but he ultimately decided against it. Gaius had regarded Merlin as a son, and Arthur didn’t want to be privy to the grief Gaius was undoubtedly enduring.

 _Oh, gods._ Arthur halted mid-step. Gaius wasn’t the only parental figure Merlin had. What about Hunith? Had anyone sent word to her? Was she even aware her only son had been killed, without even a corpse remaining to grieve? It had been remiss of Arthur not to immediately inform her, but she hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

Arthur did an about-face and hurried to Gaius’ quarters. He needed to ask if Gaius had been mindful enough to inform Hunith, or if the thought had eluded him as well. He was almost there, when a noise made him freeze in his tracks. 

_Laughter._ The noise was discordant and jarring to his ears. How could anyone possibly laugh after what had happened? How could anyone feel joy or mirth again when the world had been cast grey and doleful? Bitterness surged through him. The entire castle, as far as he was concerned, should’ve been in perpetual mourning. 

A second laugh joined in the first. It was a laugh he recognized. 

Arthur strode towards the source of the laughter, an irrational wave of anger engulfing him. They weren’t just laughing, he realized. They were conversing, and it wasn’t mere polite, forced small-talk. “Guinevere,” he said sharply. 

His harsh voice clearly caught her off-guard, because she immediately defaulted to a low curtsy. “M-my Lord?” she said uncertainly. 

“If you have time to be _laughing_ ,” he spat the word like a curse, “your duties are clearly too lax.” 

Before Guinevere could respond, or Arthur’s anger could simmer down into regret, the boy she was conversing with spoke up. 

“I didn’t realize royalty in Camelot was allowed to get away with such boorish behaviour.”

Arthur froze, before rounding on him. He’d never seen the boy before. He had angular features and chestnut hair that curled around his disproportionately small ears. “What is your name?” he demanded. 

The boy didn’t so much as flinch. “Myrddin.” As an afterthought he tacked on an unconvincing address of, “ _sire_.” 

“He’s the new stablehand,” Guinevere hastened to add. “We were just getting acquainted.” 

“Well, Myrddin. It’s your lucky day. You won’t be needing to muck out the stables.” He paused for effect. “Because you’re fired.”

“Arthur,” Guinevere protested. “You can’t just—” 

“Actually, if you’ll recall, I’m the King, so I can. Feel free to escort young Myrddin out. Or don’t. I don’t care.” 

As intended, Arthur carried on to Gaius’, but he found the room vacant. Gaius must be out. Now that he didn’t have Merlin to fetch his herbs, he likely had to procure them himself. Arthur dithered for a moment, before slipping into Merlin’s old room. Gods, it still looked lived in. The bed was unmade, and garments and books were strewn about in a helter-skelter manner. His lips twitched at the memory of stepping into Merlin’s room for the first time. 

_“Look, Merlin. I've found a place where you can put things. It's called a cupboard._ ”  
Even all these years later, he still remembered Merlin’s indignant, spluttering response. 

Arthur raised a hand to his chest, pressing hard over his sternum, as if he could massage the hurt away. He had to leave. If he stayed much longer, he was going to break down all over again. Before he left, however, he scrawled out a quick note to Gaius, before stooping to pick up one of Merlin’s ragged scarves. He held it up to his nose and inhaled. It still smelled like him. How could he be gone, how could he be _dead_ , when his scent was right there? 

Arthur kept the scarf pressed to his face until it became damp with tears. 

“No man is worth your tears,” Arthur repeated softly to himself. But Merlin was worth a thousand of Arthur’s. He pocketed the scarf. The mere knowledge that a part of Merlin was now with him, that lingering notes of his scent remained, eased some of the tightness in his chest.

Later, once Arthur was ensconced in his chambers, he reflected on his treatment of the new stablehand. He was appalled by his behaviour. He’d been rude and arrogant, exhibiting the behaviour of a spoiled young prince, rather than a ruler worthy of respect. If Merlin had witnessed it, he would’ve rightfully called him a clotpole, or a dollophead, or some other ridiculous insult only he knew the meaning of. But there had been no such rebuke, because Merlin was gone, and no one remained to hold Arthur to task. 

His brief outburst of anger was subsumed by grief. When he was called on later that evening to attend a council meeting, he declined, once again opting for Agravaine to make executive decisions on his behalf. He only left his rooms to fetch a snack for himself, and he went personally as an excuse to stretch his legs. On the way back from the kitchens he crossed paths with a drunken, grieving Gwaine for the first time. It was not a happy sight. Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Gwaine did not have the same problem. 

“You… ‘s all your fault.” He shoved Arthur hard into the stone wall. He aimed a punch at him too, but missed horribly, and ended up sprawled across the floor of the corridor. 

“Sir Gwaine,” Arthur began thickly. He didn’t know what else to say. 

“How could you?” he slurred. “How could you let ‘im die? Merlin, he just… you just let him.” 

Arthur should have helped Gwaine to his feet, should have escorted him to his rooms or at the least made sure he didn’t choke on his own spit. Instead he fled like a coward, unable to endure the recriminations he knew deep down to be true. He spent that night as he would spend all future nights: huddled up in bed with his face pressed to Merlin’s scarf, breathing him in and praying the scent would never fade.

* * *

After his encounter with Gwaine, Arthur wanted nothing more than to spend the entire day reclining in bed, but he knew he had wallowed long enough. He was heartsick, afflicted with dolor and grief, but only work and routine would ever permit the formation of scar tissue.

He met Leon and Elyan for training, the latter’s eyes full of pity, and the three of them sparred until Arthur was drenched in sweat, and could no longer hold up his sword. 

“Sire, perhaps, you would be willing to look over some of the tax reports?” Leon suggested. “Lord Agravaine plans to implement a new tariff, and I think it would benefit from your oversight.” 

“I trust my uncle knows what he’s doing,” Arthur dismissed. “He’s far wiser than I am.” 

At the moment, Arthur didn’t trust his own judgement. His moods were volatile, his rational thought tainted with bitter anguish. He needed time to collect himself, to restore his sense of equilibrium. 

Leon and Elyan exchanged a glance. “Very good, sire,” Leon managed, but not very convincingly. 

“My uncle’s counsel has proven invaluable. I have absolute faith in him.” 

Leon offered a stiff bow and said no more on the issue. 

Tired and aching from training, they parted ways, Elyan to visit his sister, and Leon to receive the latest scouting report. Arthur continued alone past the stables. He drew up short when he caught sight of an increasingly familiar head of chestnut hair. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” 

The other stablehand, whom Arthur had neglected to learn the name of, spoke up. “Myrddin is a new hire, your highness.” 

“No he’s not, because I fired him days ago.” 

“You had no good reason to fire me,” Myrddin argued. 

“That-that’s not for you to decide! I’m the King.”

“Are you? Because right now you’re acting like a bloody tyrant.” 

“You can’t address me like that!” 

“And yet I just did.” 

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed. “If you’re so set on being a stablehand, why don’t we assess your proficiency at the job?” He gestured for Myrddin to enter the stables, and followed close behind. 

The stables had already been mucked, denying Arthur the supreme satisfaction of watching Myrddin shovel manure. Instead he stood arms-crossed while Myrddin groomed the horses. He grudgingly admitted that Myrddin seemed quite capable, but a moment later, he was feeling much less charitable with his praise. After tending to Arthur’s favoured horse, Llamrei, Myrddin approached the stall at the end. The horse installed there was a temperamental mount that was extremely wary of newcomers. It had taken months for her to relax around Merlin, and only after plentiful apple and gingersnap related bribery. Merlin had taken to calling her ‘Honey,’ and when Arthur had informed him what a stupid name it was for such a powerful horse, Merlin had rebutted that Honey was only a nickname for ‘Honeysuckle’, as if that were any better. Still, Arthur had known when to recognize a losing battle and had indulged it. He had indulged a lot of Merlin’s eccentricities. 

When Myrddin entered Honey’s stall, he half-expected to see the new stableboy get trampled to death. Instead Honey nickered softly and… _nuzzled_ him?

Myrddin stroked gently over her neck and back. His movements were slow but assured. The fact that this… this _interloper_ could so easily befriend the horse that before had only opened up to Merlin sent a powerful frisson of anger through Arthur. Weren’t horses supposed to be loyal creatures? He’d heard once that horses who had developed a bond with their owner grieved when their caretaker died. Honeysuckle apparently felt no need to mourn Merlin. She’d already found a cheap substitute. 

_Damned horse._ Arthur’s expression hardened. “I’ve seen enough.” Myrddin turned to face him. “And I was right in my earlier decision. You’re not fit to be a stablehand.” 

“H-how dare you! I’m excellent at my job!” 

The other stablehand cleared his throat. Arthur hadn’t even realized that he’d followed them in. “Apologies, sire. I was unaware you had dismissed Myrddin. His presence is unneeded anyway. Tyr and I can more than manage cleaning the stables without him.” 

Something about that, about the stablehand’s brown nosing attempt at ingratiating himself with Arthur, rankled more than Myrddin’s disrespect had. He narrowed his eyes. “Come with me,” he ordered. He managed several paces, before realizing Myrddin had yet to move. “That’s an order, Myrddin. Or should I have the guards escort you out?” 

Myrddin glared, but acquiesced, trailing reluctantly behind. “Do you treat all your subjects this way?” he demanded. 

“What I do is no concern of yours.” 

Arthur led him through the corridors and up several flights of stairs until they reached the hall to his bedchambers. 

“Where are we going?” Myrddin asked. “I’m almost certain the stocks are in the opposite direction.” 

“What use would you be to me in the stocks?” Arthur gave him a sadistic smile. “No, you’re going to clean my rooms from top to bottom.” With that, he threw open the doors to his chambers, revealing the heaps of unwashed clothes that he had ordered George not to bother with. 

Myrddin gaped. “What happened?” he crowed. “Why is your room such a mess?” 

Arthur clenched his jaw. “My last manservant is no longer…” he trailed off, unsure how to complete the sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘dead’, to acknowledge what had happened, and the loss he had sustained. “No longer in my service.” 

“And you couldn’t find a replacement?” Myrddin asked dubiously. “Surely being the King’s manservant would be considered an honour by many.” 

“I did not wish to be disturbed,” Arthur said curtly. 

Myrddin lapsed into silence as he took in the garments strewn across the floor, the dirt that Arthur’s boots had tracked in, and the rumpled, unmade bed. “What do you need me to do?” 

“Strip the linens, scrub the floor, launder my clothes, dust the shelves, and bring up water for a bath.” 

“Is that all?” Myrddin muttered under his breath. “Shall I bring you dinner as well?” 

“No. George will see to that,” Arthur answered, even though Myrddin likely had no idea who George was. 

Myrddin started with Arthur’s bed. He made to strip the bed sheets, but faltered. Arthur watched as his hand emerged with Merlin’s red scarf, which had been tucked partly under Arthur’s pillow. 

Anger flared white-hot beneath Arthur’s skin. “Don’t touch that!” 

Myrddin dropped the scarf as if he’d been burned. 

Arthur strode forward and seized the tattered fabric from where it had fluttered to the ground. “You are not to ever, under any circumstances touch that again.” He knew he likely looked mad, raving over an unwashed, threadbare scarf. 

“S-sorry.” Myrddin’s earlier bravado was gone, replaced with contrition, and no small amount of shock. Once he’d collected himself he ventured, “It must be very important to you.” 

Arthur was tempted to fire him all over again, but he knew it would accomplish little. “It is.” His voice brokered no discussion, but Myrddin clearly wasn’t capable of understanding verbal and non-verbal cues. 

“Why is it?” 

“That’s none of your concern.” 

“It’s quite ratty. Must be pretty old.” 

“Myrddin,” he growled. 

“Shut. Up?” Myrddin guessed. 

Arthur faltered, the familiar response sending him back to a different conversation, with a different man. Even Myrddin’s intonation seemed eerily similar. It was as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. Grief was playing tricks with his mind, but unlike that damned horse Honeysuckle, he refused to just--just replace Merlin with the first loose-tongued brat around his age. They didn’t even look alike! Myrddin had different hair, different features, even a different build. And Merlin was not the type of person who could ever be replaced. In all his life, Arthur had never met anyone quite like him, and he was confident no one would ever compare. 

“Sire?” Myrddin asked, sounding much more tentative. “Is everything alright?” 

“Fine,” he said brusquely. “When I return I expect the room to be in tip-top shape.” 

But when he came back later, the room was not much better off than it had been. The clothes had been collected off the floor, and his clean garments had been folded and put away, but Myrddin had done a sloppy job. The quilt over his bed was uneven, and while most of the mud had been washed away, traces of dirt and dust still lingered. 

Myrddin was a hopeless servant. Arthur knew, without a doubt, he’d found an adequate replacement for Merlin. 

“Well?” Myrddin prompted, his hands clasped behind his back as he awaited Arthur’s verdict. 

“You’ve done a terrible job. You must be one of the most slovenly servants I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to have in my employ.” 

“Does that mean you’re going to reinstate me as a stablehand?” 

Arthur’s lips curled. “Oh, no. It means you’re going to be my personal manservant.” 

_“What?”_ Myrddin yelped. 

“We have to train you somehow,” he pointed out. “What better way to start than by being manservant to the king?” 

“But you’re the king. Surely you deserve better service.” 

“That’s not for you to decide.” 

“What if I refuse?” 

He smirked. “Then I’ll have you hanged.” 

“You’re bluffing.” 

“Are you sure you want to risk it?” 

Myrddin rolled his eyes. “Anything else I can do for you today, Sire?” 

“Run along and inform George there’s been a change in staffing. You will take over his duties as my manservant, but he will train you in the meanwhile.” 

Myrddin grumbled, but had the good sense to vacate the room before Arthur could invent any additional forms of punishment. Arthur smiled to himself as he watched Myrddin leave. He felt... not happy, exactly. Happiness no longer seemed attainable, but Myrddin's incompetence and bungling ameliorated some of his malaise. He was a source of entertainment, at least for a little while. 

* * *

The problem with Myrddin, as Arthur soon came to find, was that he didn’t fade into the background like other servants. Whenever he was around, Arthur was painstakingly aware of him.

There was something about Myrddin, something Arthur couldn’t quite put his finger on. The quality of his laugh, his beaming smile (which was generally only directed in Gwen’s direction), and the particular intonation of his voice were all achingly familiar. Most of all, there was something about his eyes. Arthur could lose himself in them. 

Sometimes he could’ve sworn… but no. That was his grief manipulating his senses, preying on his desperation. 

When George poured Arthur a rich, aromatic wine before he retired, it was Myrddin he watched over the rim of his goblet. His new manservant-in-training was at remarkable ease. He even looked somewhat bored at the moment. It made Arthur wonder if Myrddin had served nobility in the past to be so blasé around him now, but he quashed the thought. Other nobility were not so tolerant of back-talk. The fact that Myrddin's head was intact was proof this was his first position as a palace servant. 

Arthur sipped slowly at his cup, and his thoughts eventually drifted elsewhere. He didn’t drink with the aim of getting drunk, but rather savoured the wine and allowed it to linger on his tongue. He remembered the first time he’d witnessed Merlin get intoxicated. It had not happened at a tavern or ale house, nor during a celebration or a feast. Rather it had occurred here at the table in Arthur’s private rooms. 

At that point in their friendship they oft shared meals together, and while the wine was of too high a quality to squander on regular servants, Arthur found he didn’t mind sharing with Merlin, even when Merlin hogged most of the bottle. It had been worth it to see the bob of Merlin’s throat as he swallowed, the rising flush of colour on his cheeks, how his eyes had gleamed in the faint candlelight. 

He’d spoken at too high a volume, his words had slurred, and he’d been particularly brazen that night. Arthur’s side had hurt from excessive laughter by the end of it. 

His conversation with a drunken Merlin hadn’t been confined to bawdy jokes. Merlin had also rambled about destiny, namely Arthur being _his_ destiny and some other rot he never would’ve uttered sober. It had brought a pleased flush to Arthur’s cheeks to hear that Merlin valued him so highly, and the drunken confession had become one of Arthur’s most treasured memories, in spite of how Merlin had forgotten all of it come morning.

He wished he could share the wine with him now. 

George stepped forward to top off his goblet, but Arthur waved him away. “That’s enough. You’re both dismissed for the night.” Belatedly he added, “Thank you.” 

George fought not to preen at the small show of gratitude, and bowed so low he was nearly kissing his own shoes. Myrddin did not smile nor bow. Instead he narrowed his eyes, as if Arthur had presented him with an especially complex puzzle. 

As soon as the door closed behind them, Arthur heard Myrddin speak up. 

“What’s wrong with him?” His whisper carried, amplified by the high-ceilinged corridor. 

George admonished him. “There is nothing wrong with him. He is our illustrious ruler, and a respected one at that.” 

“I only meant, he seems off, sometimes. Like, one moment he’ll be normal, and the next he’s either angry or distant.” 

George sighed gustily. “You’d do well to keep your gossiping mouth shut, but for the record, he’s in mourning.” 

“M-mourning?” 

“For his former manservant. Rumour has it they were lovers.” 

Arthur nearly spat out his wine. What rumours? Why would anyone think such a thing? He rose from his chair and crept to the door. 

“But his manservant died weeks ago? I thought…” Myrddin’s voice sounded small. “I thought he’d be over it by now.” 

“The late Merlin was a treasured companion of his highness; not a pet." George paused as if weighing his words. "A grief so potent as that can destroy a person.” 

Their voices drifted too far away for Arthur to make out from his chambers, and he did not wish to pursue them. George’s words settled heavily over his mind. _He’s right_ , Arthur realized. Grief could destroy a person, but unlike most people, Arthur didn’t have the luxury and leisure of succumbing to it. And attending training wasn’t enough. He needed to pick up more of his duties, and remind Camelot they still had a monarch worth believing in.  


* * *

Arthur attended one-on-one meetings with concerned townsfolk and farmers, and mediated various conflicts. He even accompanied some of the scouts on a routine patrol around Camelot’s borders. The campaign took nearly three days, and by the end his head was much clearer.

He ignored thoughts of Merlin as best he could, but his memories of campaigns outside the citadel were saturated with anecdotes of Merlin. Days when they would go for leisurely hunts or rides, or patrols that Merlin insisted on accompanying him on. Even the occasional times when they went on picnics, just the two of them. They’d spent one midsummer afternoon gorging themselves on overripe berries, and Merlin had picked him an arrangement of wildflowers to display in his rooms. While his men chattered about bandit sightings and rumour of pillages, Arthur admired the wildflowers scattered through the fields. 

The time away from the palace allowed him to reflect. He’d been neglectful of his duties since… since Merlin’s _death_ , and he would need to rectify his grief-induced enervation. For the time being, however, his uncle was doing a fine job in his stead, and until Arthur became more confident in his judgement, he would allow Agravaine to continue acting as regent. 

When Arthur and the scouting team returned, he was surprised to see Myrddin waiting on the front steps to the castle. He would have assumed Myrddin had better ways to allot his time than anticipate his return. 

He dismounted, and allowed Tyr, the nicer stablehand in their employ, to lead Llamrei away. 

“You were gone three days.” Myrddin’s statement carried like an accusation. 

Arthur forced himself to smirk. “Did you miss me?” 

Myrddin’s cheeks heated. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your manservant, I’m supposed to attend you!” 

“Manservant-in-training,” Arthur corrected. “For the moment, George is still technically my manservant.” 

“You didn’t bring him either!” 

“I’m not a complete invalid,” Arthur pointed out. “Besides, it was just a routine patrol. It went fine.” 

“What if Morgana had seized the opportunity to attack? You’re vulnerable now.” 

Myrddin knew of Morgana? Arthur had wondered if her vendetta against him was common knowledge among the townsfolk. Arthur scoffed. “I’m hardly vulnerable.” 

“You’re not invulnerable either! She knows you’re… not having the best time of it, and she easily could have chosen now to hunt you down!” 

“Careful, Myrddin. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were worried about me.” He leaned forwards. “That you might even like me.” 

Myrddin opened his mouth to counter him, but paused to reassess whatever offensive statement or vehement protest he’d been about to utter. “And if I do?” 

“What?” 

“If I do like you?” 

Arthur’s mind blanked. “Then that’s… good. A master and servant should establish a rapport.” Arthur suspected that wasn’t what Myrddin meant, but he didn’t allow the thought to take root. “Come along, now. I need help preparing a speech for an upcoming feast.” 

“By ‘help’ do you mean you want me to write it all?” 

“You’re a quick learner. I knew I hired you for a reason.” 

“You only hired me because you were trying to torture me!” 

They ascended the stone steps. “Nonsense. I’ve had utmost faith in you this entire time.” 

“You’re such a prat,” Myrddin sighed, fondly. 

Warmth suffused him, and for a brief moment he felt unburdened and at peace, like all was right in the world. It was not a feeling that lasted long. 

After reconvening with Leon to discuss the state of training, Arthur headed to see Gaius. The old man had sent word through a servant that Hunith had already been notified of Merlin’s death, but Gaius’ message had been brief and perfunctory. 

Arthur decided he ought to check up on him, and offer words of comfort, if nothing else. 

On the way there, his ears picked up the sound of conversing voices. Why were gossips always stationed near Gaius’? Perhaps that was why the old healer always seemed informed of the happenings around the castle. 

Arthur edged closer. He shouldn’t have debased himself so, but sometimes eavesdropping was the only way he ever learned anything of use. 

“Did you see how they looked at each other? He’s sharing the king’s bed for sure!” 

Arthur recognized the speaker as one of the scullery maids, though her name eluded him. 

“You mean that Myrddin fellow? He’s cute. Doesn’t have the old manservant’s cheekbones, though.” 

“Still, I wouldn’t say no if I found him in _my_ bed.” 

“Too bad he’s already been called for. I doubt King Arthur likes to share.”

The girls tittered noisily. 

Arthur’s hands curled into fists. He wasn’t sure what angered him more--the gossip, or the fact that a part of him wished the gossip were true. He couldn’t deny that he was, on some level, anyway, attracted to Myrddin, but that didn’t mean he would ever act on it even if he wanted to. Even if it would provide sufficient distraction. He was the King after all. He had more urgent duties and responsibilities than achieving physical release with the first warm, willing body to present itself. 

Arthur told himself this, firmly insisted that he was not under any circumstances interested in Myrddin in a carnal nature, but the gossiping maids had planted the idea on his head, and he couldn’t seem to stop it from taking root. 

Myrddin had quite the mouth on him. He had pretty lips, even if they weren’t as full and distracting as Merlin’s had been. 

Arthur closed his eyes. _Stop that._ Stop comparing them. 

Did Myrddin share his bed with men? Had he ever been taken by another man? Arthur glanced down, and realized with a cringe that a bulge was beginning to form in his trousers. He couldn’t endure facing Gaius while part of his anatomy was… misbehaving. He retreated to his blessedly empty rooms and shrugged out of his garments.

_"Did you see how they looked at each other? He’s sharing the king’s bed for sure.”_

Arthur had watched in the past while Myrddin bent over his bed to strip the linens. It wasn’t too difficult to picture him bending over it for a different purpose. Myrddin wouldn’t be a gentle lover. He had a penchant for backtalk, and Arthur wagered he’d rile him up during sex as well. He imagined silencing Myrddin’s impertinence and cheek by thrusting into his mouth. What would it be like to be surrounded by his mouth? Would Myrddin moan around his swollen length? Would he suck him down and beg for more? 

Arthur’s arousal was an angry, insistent red. He rubbed his thumb through the fluid gathering on the tip, and shuddered as it twitched in his grasp. 

It was easy to picture Myrddin’s hand around him, Myrddin’s wrist twisting on the upstroke and eagerly stroking him. 

It had been so long since Arthur had touched himself like this. Grief had suppressed his sex-drive, and his body was hypersensitive as a result. He could come just from this, just from leisure strokes and the image of Myrddin in his mind. 

Several times his fantasy crept away from him, replacing Myrddin with Merlin, but he put a stop to it each time his focus veered away. He wasn’t thinking about Merlin. He would never dishonour his memory like that, no matter how forceful his desire. 

Arthur felt his bollocks draw up and his stomach clench: a sure sign he was coming. Just as he reached the apogee of his arousal, the door to his rooms was flung open. 

“Arthur, are you in here?” Myrddin locked eyes with him. The attention only made him groan harder as pearly come shot out of his cock. 

Instead of averting his gaze or fleeing from the room like any other normal person would have done, Myrddin continued to stare. Once Arthur regained his sense of where he was, he was able to properly appraise Myrddin. His new manservant was red in the face. Arthur didn’t need to glance below his waist to know he was excited; his ragged panting was indication enough. 

“Still haven’t learned how to knock?” Arthur asked, his voice coming out husky and gravel-rough. Arthur wiped his slick hand on the bedsheet beside him before leaning back as calmly as possible even though his flushed, sweat-slick body was still on complete display. 

Myrddin let out a garbled noise, before clearing his throat. “I, erm, guess you’ll be needing your sheets laundered?” 

“And is that why you entered my chambers without knocking? To change my sheets?” 

“Uh, no. I-I mean. It’s not… important. I’ll just. Leave you to it.” 

Arthur smirked in amusement. “Yes, you do that.” 

Myrddin turned on his heel and bolted from the room. Arthur was pleased to note that the stiffness in Myrddin’s gait could only be the result of burgeoning arousal. 

He laid back on his pillows, come cooling over his stomach. Maybe he’d have Myrddin clean it off him in the morning, with full knowledge of what it was from. In truth, he hadn’t anticipated Myrddin’s reaction. He’d appeared quite responsive, and there had been raw desire on his face, in addition to flustered embarrassment. Arthur hadn’t felt so lax and calm in a while. As he sunk into lassitude, the words of the scullery maids repeated in his mind on a loop. 

* * *

A stilted, awkward silence descended on the pair the next morning. Did Myrddin regret walking in on Arthur? Had he crossed a line in flirting with him? It wasn’t as if the occurrence had been orchestrated, but Arthur still felt conscience-stricken. Several times he glanced in Myrddin’s direction while the servant cleaned, and each time Myrddin guiltily snapped his gaze away.

“This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” Arthur wondered. 

“Sire?” Myrddin asked. 

He rolled his eyes. “You’ve dressed and undressed me before. Surely the sight of my cock isn’t that mentally scarring.” 

“N-no. Of course not.” 

Arthur wasn’t content leaving the conversation there. He wanted. He’d denied himself of his wants for so long. He’d wanted Merlin for years, but he’d restrained himself, knowing that sexual gratification couldn’t have been worth jeopardizing such a valued friendship. He didn’t have that history with Myrddin. They didn’t share the same memories. They hadn’t risked their lives for each other. Sex wouldn’t come at a high cost for them. 

“You’re watching me,” Arthur commented. 

Myrddin flinched, casting his eyes downwards. “Sorry.” 

The penitent look didn’t suit him. Arthur stalked towards him, unsure what spurred his sudden courage. “I’ve seen you watch me before. Do you deny it?” 

Myrddin’s throat clicked audibly as he swallowed. “N-no.” 

“You desire me.” 

It wasn’t a question, but he was still relieved when Myrddin breathed, _“yes.”_

Arthur surged forwards, pressing his mouth to his recently appointed manservant’s. Myrddin was largely unresponsive beneath his onslaught. He hoped it was the result of shock and not disgust. He pulled back to reassess. 

Myrddin’s eyes were wide and innocent. “I had no idea you liked--” 

“My past partners knew to use discretion.” 

“Were there many?” 

Arthur faltered. “What?” 

A blush stained Myrddin’s cheeks. “Were there many past partners?” 

Arthur gawked at the flagrant disrespect. Commoners had no right questioning royalty. He was not obligated to answer, let alone answer honestly, yet he found himself doing exactly that. “No.” He cleared his throat. “There were very few.” 

Myrddin swallowed. “Then why me?” 

“Because,” Arthur nipped at his lips. “You remind me of someone.” 

“Who?” 

“That’s none of your business.” 

He ran a hand through Myrddin’s chestnut hair, memorizing the soft texture. He leaned in. Myrddin smelled almost like—but no, that was Arthur’s imagination yet again. Logically he knew this, but he couldn’t help himself from pressing his nose to Myrddin’s throat and inhaling deeply. 

“You, er, seem to enjoy smelling me.” 

“Mm.” 

“Is this some sort of kink? Is unwashed peasant the scent that gets nobility off nowadays?” he babbled. “Wish I’d known sooner. Would’ve meant a lot less nights with just me and my right hand.”

Arthur huffed out a laugh. “Shut up, Merlin.” 

The body against him froze. “W-what did you call me?” 

A chill swept over Arthur’s skin. “I… Myrddin. I said…” Arthur broke off, feeling more than a little lost. It was possible a newcomer like Myrddin knew of Merlin’s existence given how quickly gossip spread through the castle, but he was likely confused. “Apologies.” Arthur closed his eyes. It had been an innocent slip of the tongue. Their names were similar, and they were both brazen and impertinent, and both had a penchant for getting under Arthur’s skin. “He’s just... I just.” He gulped. “I miss him _so_ much.” 

Myrddin crept closer, laying a gentle touch to his shoulder. “What was he to you?” 

Arthur didn’t know how to respond. Manservant, ally, confidante, friend. They were all accurate descriptors, and yet none were significant enough. Arthur opted for the most honest answer he could give. “He was _everything_ to me.” 

“Did the two of you—"

Arthur wasn’t sure what Myrddin was going to ask, but he had a good guess. “No, we were never like that. I wanted to, but...”

“Why didn’t you ever tell him?” 

Never mind that he was right, it still irked Arthur that Myrddin automatically assumed he’d never confessed to Merlin. “I’m the sovereign of Camelot. I couldn’t afford to.” 

“Do you think you’re the only king to ever fall in love?” 

“There’s a difference between fancying someone, or desiring someone and…” and being deaf and dumb and blind with love. His feelings for Merlin had been a danger to them both, a risk he couldn’t afford.

“I bet he—he must have loved you a lot.”

Arthur snorted. “Doubtful. I was very hard on him. Picked on him constantly but I never actually meant any of it.” 

“I bet he did though.” Myrddin said firmly.

Arthur laughed wetly. His eyes stung as if dirt and dust had been flung into his face. “Well, maybe. Guess we’ll never know.” The charged moment between him and Myrddin had fizzled out. Gods, he was so pathetic. He couldn’t even make it through a sexual encounter without thinking about Merlin. “You’re dismissed for the day. I apologize for… for behaving so improperly.” Quietly he added, “You can have your job back at the stables, if you wish.” 

Myrddin shook his head stubbornly. “And leave you to George’s care? Even I’m not that cruel.” 

Arthur attempted a smile, but his mouth resisted his efforts. 

“I’ll see you later, Arthur,” Myrddin said softly.  


* * *

Arthur attended the feast that night. If nothing else, he hoped his presence would boost morale and remind his people they still had a king, even if he felt like little more than figurehead.

The other lords and noblemen bickered and cavorted across the long trestle-table. Arthur didn’t think he was still capable of producing laughter. It was a foreign ability to him now, one his throat and vocal cords had forgotten. 

On his left sat his uncle. George stood behind him, ready to wait on him. He remembered the days when Merlin would whisper jokes in his ear and would spill wine and food on his lap. Merlin had insisted it was accidental—a result of his innate clumsiness—but Arthur suspected some of Merlin’s spillage had been intentional. Now he would never know. 

“Your highness,” Leon spoke up during a brief lull. “Have you given any thought to reaching out once more to Queen Annis?” 

Arthur lowered his fork. “I’m still awaiting a reply from the missive I sent.” 

Leon stole a glance at Agravaine. “Perhaps you were not informed. Queen Annis of Caerleon sent a reply weeks ago. She is waiting on you to arrange a place and time of meeting.” 

Agravaine’s brow furrowed, but Arthur couldn’t discern whether it was from concern or calculation. A sense of unease flared low in his gut. “Is this true, uncle?” 

“It is true Queen Annis’ letter arrived, however I did not think it prudent to trouble you, given your state.” 

“My state,” Arthur echoed. 

“I mean no disrespect, sire. I only meant, we all sympathize with you and the loss you’ve sustained. You appointed me your regent, and I did not wish to bother you with trifling matters while you were emotionally unwell.” 

“I’m grateful to you,” Arthur assured, “but Camelot’s relation with the kingdom of Caerleon is not a trifling matter. I will send word to them tonight, and in the future I expect to be informed of any letters or messages from other dignitaries.” 

“Of course, my liege.” 

The matter was laid to rest after that, and laughter rang out once more. Arthur glanced at his uncle surreptitiously throughout the feast. His uncle’s hard stare was fixed, more often than not, on Leon. Perhaps Agravaine felt threatened by Leon? Or inferior? Either way, Arthur was sure it was of little import. The feast seemed to go on for ages, and Arthur was weary and irritable by the time the other lords finally retired for the night, many of them leading maids and servants to their beds. Arthur resolutely ignored the cold feeling in his chest that was borne from the knowledge he would spend his night alone. Other kings, he knew, kept many lovers, but Arthur's preference for men made it difficult. Back when he'd fancied Guinevere, he never would have impinged on her virtue, and after becoming close with Merlin, any attraction he experienced towards others was rare and fleeting. 

Arthur made his way to his rooms unassisted. It wasn’t vacant like he’d anticipated. 

“Myrddin.” Arthur drew up short. “What are you doing here?” 

Myrddin glanced up shyly, before looking away. “Someone has to help you out of your clothes.” 

“You mean… for sleeping?” Arthur confirmed. 

Myrddin shrugged. “Of a sort.” 

His heart thumped. “Why, Myrddin. That’s very forward of you.” 

“Not as forward as you’ve been,” he argued. 

Arthur capitulated with a shrug. “I suppose you have a point.” 

Myrddin bridged the distance between them, slipping his thin, long-fingered hand in Arthur’s calloused one. “Do you want me because I’m Myrddin, or because I remind you of _him_?” 

There was no reproach or recrimination in Myrddin’s gaze. Arthur knew he owed him the truth. “Both,” he croaked. 

For some inexplicable reason, this made Myrddin smile. With a tug of his hand, Myrddin led Arthur to bed. Their mouths instantly gravitated towards each other. Arthur cupped Myrddin’s jaw to deepen the kiss, moulding their lips and tongues together in a warm, wet slide. 

It was supposed to be meaningless, an affair of convenience to soothe the itch under his skin. There was no reason for Myrddin to be looking at him like _that_ , with wonder and even adoration. It left him vaguely unsettled, but not to the extent that he wanted to put a stop to it. Still, he had to make certain Myrddin was alright with it. 

“Are you sure this okay?” he asked. 

“More than certain.” Myrddin was a solid, comfortable weight in Arthur’s lap. Their bodies fit together so naturally, Myrddin all long, lean lines where Arthur’s frame was broader and muscled. Myrddin suckled kisses along the curve of his jaw and down the length of his neck. Arthur hated himself for it, hated himself for pretending, but he couldn’t help closing his eyes and imagining it was a different body squirming against him, a different pair of lips mouthing at his flesh. 

“Want you,” Myrddin murmured against his clavicle. Arthur bucked against him, unable to slow the rapid hitching of his hips. Arthur’s duties as crown prince, and later as reigning king, hadn’t left him much time to seek out intimacy with others. Having Myrddin pressed against him now was impossibly good, the press of his bulge against Arthur enough to knock the breath out of him. 

“I’m going come in my trousers if you don’t stop that,” Arthur warned. 

Myrddin groaned, rubbing and writhing against him. “I’m not against that.” 

“I thought your intention was to undress me for sleeping?” he teased, before lowering his voice. “I have a bottle of oil we could try out. If you’d like.” 

“F-fuck. Why do you even... " 

“To polish my sword, of course,” Arthur answered. 

“Oh, I’ll polish your sword.” Myrddin squeezed him through the layers of fabric. When Myrddin withdrew his hand, there was an incriminating wet patch. “Where’s the oil?” 

Arthur waved vaguely in the direction of his cupboard. “Second drawer.” He mourned the loss of Myrddin’s presence and warmth, but it was worth the chance to leer at his pert bum. 

Myrddin retrieved the half-empty bottle of oil. “You must have used it a lot,” he commented innocently. 

“Thanks to my former manservant, I was in a constant state of sexual frustration.” Arthur cringed inwardly. He couldn’t even make it through a single evening without referencing Merlin. 

Myrddin luckily didn’t seem put-off by the remark. Instead he beamed. “We’ll have to make up for it, then." He crawled onto the bed. "What do you want?” 

Arthur pictured Myrddin’s fingers curling inside him, opening him up in preparation of his cock. Then he pictured thrusting into Myrddin’s body, being engulfed in his tight hole, thrusting deep and burying his seed. “Anything.” He swallowed. “Everything. I don’t care.” 

Myrddin’s breath hitched. “I think,” he began haltingly. “I think what you need is someone who will take care of you. Do you want that, Arthur? Want me to make you feel good?”

He exhaled gustily. _“Yes.”_

Myrddin leaned down to kiss him. After they’d stripped out of their clothes, Myrddin whispered, “Roll over for me?” 

He complied, pressing his face into the pillow. He could see the edge of Merlin’s scarf peeking out, and couldn’t help gripping it in one hand. Myrddin kissed down Arthur’s spine, pressing his mouth to the divots above is arse, before taking a hold of his cheeks and squeezing. Arthur ground down against his mattress, unable to stop his hips from seeking friction. 

A slick, questing finger circled his opening, before dipping smoothly inside. He squirmed against the intrusion, before arching his back in an attempt to coax it deeper. When Myrddin saw for himself how eager Arthur was, he slipped a second finger in and began to thrust. 

With his back to Myrddin, Arthur pressed his face to Merlin’s scarf and inhaled. He wasn’t even certain if his scent still lingered, or if it was merely Arthur’s imagination, but the notion that he was breathing in Merlin’s musk turned him on that much more. 

Once he was loose enough, Myrddin removed his fingers. “How do you want it?” 

“Like this,” Arthur answered. Back-to-chest. This way it would be easier to pretend, easier to maintain the illusion that it was someone else thrusting deep inside him, someone else grunting into his ear.

Myrddin slicked his cock in oil and began to enter him from behind. It was thrilling, feeling that pulsating length inside him, and not being sure whether the next thrust would be slow and teasing or hard and punishing. Myrddin snapped his hips experimentally, his cock finding Arthur’s prostate with uncanny precision. 

Sweat beaded along his hairline. His body quivered with tension as Myrddin set the pace. It didn’t take long to bring him over the edge. His cock spasmed and his mind blanked out from dizzying pleasure. He threw his head back and moaned. “Fuck, Merlin!” 

Not long after, Myrddin came with a shout, filling him up with pulse after pulse of warm fluid. He groaned when Myrddin’s cock slipped out of him, leaving him aching and empty in a wonderful way. He was pleasantly exhausted, and barely had the strength to throw an arm around Myrddin and tug his body close. Sleep found Arthur immediately, and he slept better than he had in what felt like eons. 

When Arthur awoke the next morning he was struck with an odd feeling he almost didn’t recognize. He was content. It was unnerving, and it took him a moment to remember why. 

He’d slept with Myrddin. And it had been good. _Really_ good. 

Unfortunately that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t wish to see Myrddin’s face when he awoke. No matter how many similarities they shared, Myrddin would never be Merlin. He had to learn to accept that, or else nip this, whatever it was, in the bud before either one of them got hurt. Then again, Myrddin was a grown man, and he’d known going into it that Arthur still had residual feelings for Merlin. He didn’t have the right to be angry or offended. 

Arthur rolled over onto his side. When he lifted his lids, it was to see Myrddin’s blue eyes already focused on him. 

“Morning, Sire.” Myrddin gave him a slow, lazy smile, before leaning in to kiss him. Arthur made a noise of protest at the force of Myrddin’s morning breath. 

“Can’t you chew on some mint leaves before you do that?” 

“Mm, but then I’d have to get out of bed and you’d miss me.” 

“Well, when you put it like that…” Arthur tangled his fingers in Myrddin’s disheveled hair, tugging his head back to allow access to his neck. He kissed and sucked, laving at the pale skin until discoloured marks formed. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Myrddin groaned. 

“Is that a request?” 

Myrddin pinched his bum. “Shut it, you arse.” His tone sobered a moment later. “Arthur—er, sire, there is something I need to discuss with you.” 

Arthur leaned back. There was no hint of mirth on Myrddin’s face, and any desire or lust had been replaced with concern. “Sounds serious,” he commented. 

“Erm, it is." Myrddin inhaled deeply. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I think you should be wary of Agravaine.”

Arthur jerked upright, his bedsheets falling down in a ripple of silk to leave his chest uncovered. “I beg your pardon? Agravaine is a trusted advisor and one of my closest kin.” 

Myrddin grimaced. “He’s already begun fomenting political unrest among your people. I listened in on one of the council meetings he led, and he’s intent on raising taxes to an unsustainable amount. There’s also numerous supply and weapons shipments unaccounted for, but a group of anti-monarchists were found with weapons made at the royal forge. I think Agravaine’s been funding their efforts. I would’ve confided in you earlier, but I didn’t know to make you believe me.”

Arthur’s voice hardened. “You think because you’ve shared my bed you can manipulate me?” 

“What?" Myrddin crowed. "I’m not manipulating you! I’m cautioning you.” 

“Get out.”

Myrddin ignored his mandate. “I know you care for him, and I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you, but he is not on your side, Arthur.” 

He let out a derisive snort. “Oh, and you are?” 

Myrddin raised his chin. “Yes, I am! And if you weren’t such a clotpole, you’d see that!” 

Arthur bristled. “What did you just say?” 

“N-nothing!” 

He gripped Merlin’s arms—wait, no, _Myrddin's arms_ —his blunt nails biting into his flesh until he was almost certain the skin would break and bleed. “Who taught you that word? Who told you to say it?” 

“N-nobody.”

“Did Morgana send you here?” 

“What? No! I-it’s a phrase I picked up. On my travels.” 

“Get out!” he roared. This time Myrddin had the good sense to obey. 

Arthur stripped his bedsheets and removed the covers of his pillows himself. He wanted no evidence and no reminder of their coupling. His heart raced in his ears. How dare he. _How dare he_. He paced the floors of his rooms, so angry he felt he’d be sick. 

How had he known that word? It had been Merlin’s word, not to be uttered by anyone but the two of them. What was Myrddin trying to do? Become a replacement? Was he an actor who had he been groomed to act and speak in a manner similar to Merlin? Had his uncle, or another well-meaning member of the court, hired him in order to cure Arthur of his heartache? If so, why had Myrddin accused Agravaine of betrayal? Was he hoping to seize more power and influence for himself? 

Arthur fought not to gag. He was going to be sick. He wasn’t sure what hurt more--his stomach, his head, or his heart. His entire body was raw like an exposed wound, and even the air on his skin burned. It was intolerable. He needed something, some sort of tonic or remedy to fix this, or else knock him unconscious so that he didn’t have to think for a little while. 

Arthur hastily dressed himself, before stumbling into the corridor. He waved off a pair of concerned guards, and continued unassisted to the lower wing of the castle. He opened the doors to Gaius’ chambers. Similar to last time, the old healer was absent, but unlike last time, Myrddin was seated at Gaius’ table, eating a bowl of porridge as if he did so every other day. 

It all clicked into place. Myrddin had laughed with Guinevere like an old friend. He had used that word—Merlin’s word. And now he was in Gaius’ rooms. 

Myrddin hadn’t noticed him yet. Arthur leaned back, lounging in the doorway, and assessing him with gimlet eyes. “You could’ve been a little more imaginative, you know.” Arthur’s voice came out steady and even. He had no idea how he managed it.

The spoon dropped from his hand with a clatter. “W-what?”

“ _Myr_ -ddin,” he rolled the name off his tongue. “ _Mer_ -lin. Same number of syllables. And they even start with the same letter.”

Merlin’s expression was blank, but Arthur could see his pulse jumping in his neck. 

“One would think you’d be a little more convincing at lying, given all the practice you’ve had.”

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice cracked, cementing his suspicions.

“Change back,” he barked out. 

“I—” 

“That’s an order.”

“I need a potion for it.” 

“A potion,” Arthur echoed. “Are you a sorcerer, then, or did you have someone else make it for you?” 

Merlin opened his mouth. 

“Don’t you dare lie to me.” 

“I was born with magic. I have the potion stored in the back. I’ll be a moment.”

“I’ll accompany you.” Arthur didn’t trust him not to try to escape. He wasn’t letting him out of his sight for even a second.

Merlin’s hand trembled as he retrieved a cloudy potion from the topshelf, flanked by various flasks of poisons. He uncorked the phial and downed it in two large gulps. The transformation was near-immediate. His bones made a sickening crunching noise. The pigment of his hair darkened. His ears grew larger, his face thinned, and his cheekbones became more apparent. His limbs twisted at odd angles in order to accommodate the metamorphosis. It looked painful. Arthur hoped it was. Merlin deserved it.

Only when the proper sight of Merlin was before him did the full reality of the situation strike him. Arthur’s legs nearly gave out. He sunk into the nearest chair, shoulders sagging in defeat. There was a small part of him that had hoped he’d been wrong. He took a long moment to gather his faculties. He’d wished countless times that Merlin would return to him by some miracle, but now that Merlin was alive and breathing before him, he could dredge up only anger. 

Merlin was wise enough not to break the silence. Arthur stared at the grain in the wood, not lifting his eyes from the table. 

The back-door swung open. “Merlin, I have the potion you-- _ah_.” Gaius cut himself off, looking between the two of them. “Oh dear.” 

_Oh dear?_ That was all he had to say? Arthur rounded on him. “You knew. You knew he was alive and you didn’t see fit to tell me. And what about Gwaine? I’m surprised he hasn’t died of alcohol poisoning!” 

“I asked him not to,” Merlin spoke up. 

Arthur ignored him, staring into Gaius’ weary old face. “Who do you serve, Gaius? Tell me, who is your king?” 

“You are, my lord.” 

“I find it interesting, then, that you would hold the word of a common servant above your ruler.”

“I intend no disrespect sire, but Merlin is no common servant. He is the greatest sorcerer to walk the earth.” 

“I don’t care,” Arthur clipped out, “What he is. He’s _nothing_ to me now.” 

The potion shelf exploded in a rain of glass. By some miracle, none of them were struck by the flying shards. Arthur stared at Merlin. His entire frame was wracked with convulsions of anger, and his eyes glowed like molten gold. When he spoke, his voice boomed, reverberating through the partitions of the room. "You're not the only one who's suffered!” 

“Don’t you dare speak to me about suffering,” Arthur hissed. He hated how in moments of anger his voice so closely resembled his father’s. 

“Stop acting like you’ve been completely blindsided!” The rumbling quality disappeared from Merlin’s voice. Tears slipped down his cheeks, leaving wet trails behind. “You knew. You knew it was me the moment you heard me speak!" 

“That’s a lie!” 

“No,” Merlin argued. “On some level you knew it was me.” Arthur shook his head, a rebuttal on his tongue, but Merlin forged on. “We’d spoken twice, you’d only known of Myrddin’s existence for a matter of days before you were asking _me_ to be your manservant. You recognized me! You knew it was me!” 

“That’s not why--” but Arthur deflated, because it was. He’d noticed similarities between Merlin and Myrddin right away. On some unconscious level, he’d known. His grief had been tempered after meeting Myrddin, and he’d only started to really recover after Myrddin became his manservant and restored his sense of normalcy. That didn’t make any of it better. It didn’t change anything. If anything, it made it worse. Merlin had had multiple opportunities to confide in Arthur, to reveal the truth, and yet even after witnessing how devastated Arthur had been, he'd kept the truth to himself.   
“You’re a coward, Merlin.” 

“Me? _I’m_ the coward?” 

Gaius shifted awkwardly, looking very much like he’d rather be anywhere but there. 

“I’ve given up _everything_ for you!” Merlin yelled. “I’ve killed for you, I’ve risked death for you.” 

“And faked your death, can’t leave that one out,” Arthur said nastily. 

“You’re the one who was too afraid to confess your feelings for me when you had the chance! You were in love with me and you said nothing!” 

Arthur nearly pointed out that Merlin had said nothing either, but he stopped himself. He realized that even after sleeping together, he had no idea whether Merlin had ever loved him back. He clenched his jaw. “You don’t have to worry about that, because I’m not anymore!” And in a grand fit of pique, Arthur slammed the door behind him. He could hear Merlin’s harsh breathing behind him, and Gaius’ muttered, _“that went well.”_

Arthur stalked through the castle. When he passed Guinevere, he shot her a dark look that sent her flinching back. He had one item of business to attend to, and then he was going to spend the day out in the woods, killing anything he could. He rapped sharply on Gwaine’s door. There was no response, but then, he hadn’t expected there to be. He forced it open. 

Gwaine groaned from his bed. He didn't know what state Gwaine was in, if he had sobered up, or was still frequenting the tavern. Either way, Arthur doubted the man was in fine fettle. 

“Merlin’s alive,” Arthur said shortly. “I thought you should know, since he didn’t see fit to inform either of us.” Only Gwen and Gaius, apparently. 

Arthur didn’t wait to see if Gwaine had been lucid enough to understand him.  


* * *

A fortnight passed. Or maybe longer. Time seemed to pass so slowly, and yet it was a blur. 

The maids were scared to enter his room, and even George was flighty and nervous around him now. 

He hadn’t touched base with his uncle since learning of Merlin’s deception. He’d neglected to send a reply to Queen Annis, and he doubted she’d appreciate being kept waiting. Taking this long to write her back appeared lazy; the sign of an incompetent ruler. There was no reason for her to want to establish an alliance with Camelot after this. 

He didn’t know what state the kingdom was in, but he trusted Agravaine was taking care of it. 

Arthur wasn’t neglectful of all his duties. His swordsman skills were at a personal best. He fought with the fervor of a man possessed, and trained from dawn til dusk, joined by his closest knights and some of the newer recruits. Gwaine had returned to the training field as well, but at first only as a spectator. He'd lost muscle tone during his period of inactivity. He worked his way back to a state of fitness, and one day, after sparring with Arthur, drew him aside. 

“You should speak to Merlin.” Before Arthur could process his words, he’d continued. “I’m just as bloody furious with him as you are, but his reasons were noble ones.” Gwaine licked his lips. “He did it for you, Arthur.” 

He didn’t grace Gwaine with a response, but the knight's words echoed in his mind for hours to come. 

That night it was Arthur, not Gwaine, who drowned himself in alcohol. The room swayed when he tried to stand, so he remained seated. 

“Guards!” he bellowed. 

They entered the room promptly, albeit with some trepidation.

“Go to Gaius’ chambers and bring me Merlin.” They shared a confused look. "Myrddin," he corrected. "Bring him."

The guards were intelligent enough not to question their king. 

He had it all planned out in his head. He was going to give Merlin a verbal dressing down until he was reduced to tears. He’d show him how wrong he was, make him fall to his knees in remorse and grovel. And then Arthur would turn him away, so that he knew what it felt like to be abandoned. 

He waited longer than he would have liked, but eventually Merlin entered his room.

Arthur tried to remember the start of his carefully prepared speech. Perhaps he should have had George write it down for him. He lifted his gaze to Merlin’s. The sight of him still stole his breath, as if a part of him couldn’t believe he was really there. 

Instead of a calm, dispassionate speech, or even an angry tirade, a sob tore from Arthur's throat. “How could you?” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He’d had it all planned out. He was meant to sound angry and imposing; not like a plaintive child. 

Merlin looked stricken. “I had to. Arthur, I had to.” 

“You have— _no idea._ No idea what you put me through. I mourned you, Merlin! We all did! Except Gwen and Gaius, apparently. Good to know I’m high up on your list of people you can trust.”

“Gaius was supposed to be the only one aware of the truth, but Gwen recognized me.” There was a pleading quality to Merlin’s voice. “I thought you’d seen through the disguise too. When you, um, when you...” 

“When I what?” 

“When you looked twice at me. When you looked at me like I wasn’t just a servant but something... more,” he finished lamely. 

Arthur barked out a short laugh. “You must think I’m really stupid.” 

“Arthur no, I—listen to me!” he yelled, when Arthur opened his mouth to speak over him. “Morgana found out my identity.”

“Oh? What tipped her off? Years of being acquainted with you?” 

“Not—I don’t mean as Merlin! Would you listen to me for a moment, you stubborn clotpole? She found out I’m _Emrys._ ” 

Arthur hesitated. He remembered Morgana uttering that name after she’d killed Merlin, though evidently unsuccessfully. “Who’s Emrys?” 

“I am.” 

“So that’s another thing you lied about. So much for being ‘Merlin.’” 

“I am Merlin! Emrys is a name the druids call me.”

“The druids? What the hell do they have to do with anything?” Arthur’s head was too foggy for a conversation this complex. 

“They sort of, um, well not worship exactly, but I’m kind of revered among them? According to them, I’m a warlock who's been foretold in prophecies. You’re in the prophecies too,” Merlin added, as though that were some sort of consolation. 

“I don’t care,” Arthur said slowly, “about druidic nonsense. How did Morgana learn of your… other identity?” 

“Agravaine told her.” 

"Agravaine," Arthur echoed. Merlin had told him countless lies, and yet Arthur could sense in his heart that Merlin wasn't lying now. Every falsehood he uttered had served a purpose, and it had never been a malicious one. “He's working with Morgana?" 

"Yes," Merlin confirmed softly. "He blames you for Ygraine's death. He wants revenge for the loss of his sister." 

Arthur slumped low in his seat. "That’s why you bade me not to trust him. Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” 

“I had to keep my magic a secret at all cost.” 

“You could have told me Agravaine was a traitor without disclosing your magic.” 

“I would have,” Melin protested, “but Gaius already warned you about Agravaine's duplicity and you refused to listen to him.” 

Arthur scowled. “That was different.” 

“How?” Merlin challenged. “Because Gaius is older and wiser and worthy of respect? If you wouldn’t listen to him, what hope was there of you listening to me?”

“Because you’re _you_.” Arthur dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing over his tired eyes. “God help me, but sometimes I think you’re the only person I can trust. Clearly I was misguided.” 

“You _can_ trust me, Arthur.” 

He snorted. “Trust is a two-way path, Merlin. I don’t see much reciprocation on your end.” 

“It is true that I have lied to you in the past, I’ve withheld and deceived, but—"

Arthur held up a hand to silence him. “How did Agravaine learn that you're Emrys? I can’t imagine you were practicing spells in the corridor.”

“He found out because he tried to kill me. Even before they learned of my magic, Morgana wanted me dead. According to her, you were strangely fond of me. She hoped my death would unsettle you for a short time. Agravaine caught me unawares, and I had no choice but to use magic to save myself. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they either outed me as a sorcerer to you, or tried to use me against you.” Merlin expelled a quavering breath. “I needed Morgana to let down her guard in order to figure out her plans.” 

“And did you?” 

“Yes. Some of them. Agravaine’s not exactly subtle, and I know who their allies are based on which groups he’s supplied with weapons. Now that they believe Emrys is dead, it's been easier to follow Agravaine during the night when he convenes with Morgana. I've learned that she's allied herself with the warlord Helios, and I know the names of some of their spies. I have more to report, but none of it’s urgent. Morgana’s playing a long game.” 

Arthur closed his eyes. His head hurt. And not from the alcohol. He hated this. He didn’t want to be weighed down by anger and bitterness. He wanted to be able to laugh again, to pick on Merlin the way he used to. He wanted to hold him close, to have him as his friend and his lover. What an awful feeling it was, this hatred. How did Morgana’s hatred sustain itself without burning out? 

Finally Arthur raised his head and opened his eyes. Merlin had not moved from his spot. “Did you know, I thought I was projecting your qualities onto Myrddin, that I was delusional. If you’ll recall, my father started hallucinating towards the end of his life. How was I to know his mental illness hadn’t been passed on to me?” 

Merlin looked stricken. “I didn’t even think about… and it wasn’t. I mean, your father’s mind was intact. He only began hallucinating because Morgana planted a mandrake root underneath his bed.” 

Arthur swallowed tightly. “I wish you had told me. I’ve had countless nightmares about losing my mind as he lost his.” 

Merlin’s chin quivered. “I’m so sorry, Arthur. There is so, so much I wish I could’ve told you.”

“It’s not that you could not, Merlin. It’s that you wouldn't.” 

“I was doing what I thought best.” 

“Best for whom?” he challenged. 

Merlin worried his lip. “For both of us. I was afraid of being banished or executed, and I didn’t want to force you into a position where you had to choose between me and your father's law.” 

“If you truly knew me, you’d know I would never have brought you to harm.” 

“I did know that. I still do,” he amended. “But when should I have told you? When you were an arse to me when I first came to Camelot? When your father raved on about the dangers of magic and you said nothing to dispute him? When you stood by Uther’s side while sorcerers burned on the pyre or were hanged? By the time I came to really trust you, I’d already been lying to you for so long. How could I tell you, when it would mean confessing how dishonest I’d been?” 

Arthur let that sink in. Hearing Merlin’s justifications made the hurt easier to weather. In truth, if there positions were reversed, he didn’t know what he would have done in Merlin’s place. He liked to think he would have told him the truth, but there was no way of knowing for sure. “What I don’t understand, is why you went along with it when I…” he trailed off, trying to recollect his thoughts. “You kissed me back. You let me touch you. I don’t understand it. If I’d known who you were I’d never have--” 

Merlin reared back as if he’d been slapped, the hurt in his eyes momentarily stealing Arthur of his words.

“--Never have taken advantage,” he finished.

“How exactly did _you_ take advantage?” Merlin demanded, his hurt ceding to bafflement. 

Arthur shifted uncomfortably.“Well, I suppose some servants may feel pressured not to displease their king and may feel certain obligations to impress.” 

“Are you serious? You asked me multiple times if I was all right with it,” Merlin pointed out. “If one of us was taking advantage, it was me. I didn’t disclose that I’m, you know, _me_. For all I knew, you might have only wanted Myrddin and not Merlin.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could I not want you?” 

Merlin looked away. “As I recall you saying, you don’t anymore.” 

Arthur clambered to his feet. He tilted Merlin’s chin up. “You’re not the only one who lies, Merlin.” 

“Really?” 

“Of course. I used to lie about needing your services all the time. I’d intentionally create messes and make you clean them up as an excuse to spend more time with you.” And watch him bend over to clean, but he kept that to himself. 

Merlin’s lips twitched. “I meant, do you really still want me? After everything that’s happened?” 

Wasn’t that a briar patch of difficult questions. Arthur held himself stiffly. “One thing I’ve wondered, is why everyone I’ve ever loved has betrayed me. I never saw Morgana’s betrayal coming. Then I found out my own father lied about the truth of my birth. Gwen cheated on me with Lancelot. According to you, my uncle Agravaine is conspiring against me. And then _you_. You thought it was better to fake your own death and let me mourn you than confide in me. If you had told me, we could have planned it together. We could've spared so many people so much grief." 

Tears slipped swiftly down Merlin’s cheeks. He made no move to wipe them away. 

“In some ways your betrayal hurts the most." Arthur stared into his eyes. He realized now that even as Myrddin, his eyes had not changed. "But it’s also the easiest to forgive.”

Merlin’s eyes widened. “It is?” 

“Yes. Because I know your betrayal came from a place of love.”

“It did. I—I do. Love you, I mean.”

Arthur held out his hand, pulling Merlin in towards him. “Yes, I’d gathered that.” 

“I’ve really made a mess of everything,” Merlin sniffled. 

“Well, not everything.” Arthur wiped at his tear tracks. “Even after being a colossal idiot, you’ve still managed to keep me.” 

Merlin buried his hands in the fabric of Arthur's tunic, clinging tight. “And I’m never letting you go again.” 

Arthur pressed a kiss to Merlin’s forehead. He was still angry and hurt. Betrayal couldn’t be remedied by a few paltry words, but he had Merlin back, and for now, that was all that mattered. Together they would confront Agravaine and defeat Morgana. Maybe one day they might even be able to pull off uniting the kingdoms of Albion. 

Merlin sniffled. Arthur’s tunic suddenly felt suspiciously damp.

“Merlin,” he said slowly. “For your sake I sincerely hope you did not just wipe your snot on my shirt.”

“Erm... sorry?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “You are _such_ a girl's petticoat.” 

“But you love me anyway?” 

“I do.” Arthur’s arms tightened. He never wanted to let Merlin go. _“So much.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. As always, comments are appreciated


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